I love you, Ana
by Jkilmer
Summary: A poem about my love/hate relationship with Ana. Just expressing myself; you don't have to read it if you don't wantto.
1. Chapter 1

I smile and force the light to show in my eyes so that you don't ask what's wrong.

I laugh and joke and take small bites; showing you that I'm strong.

I duck my head and shove another spoonful in my mouth so that you think I'm fine.

Inside I'm broken; bleeding; trying to hide. The me buried deep beneath my skin, beneath my bones, struggling to show herself.

She's dying and dragging me down with her, ignoring my silent screams, trying desperately to survive.

Yet the people around me go about their daily lives, as do I. Ignoring the pains in my belly and smiling at passerby.

No, this poem doesn't rhyme, and it's not supposed to. I'm writing this for me and because Ana told me to.

As I write this, Ana sits beside me. Sneering and yelling things that I try to ignore.

As much as I hate my reflection, I look in the mirror daily. See the fat sitting there just beneath my skin, taunting me.

Ana's watchful eyes express what I cannot say aloud but what I know is true.

_You're fat; you're worthless; you're not __perfect_.

I try to block out the words as I strip down and step on the scale; watch the numbers talk to me; whisper things alongside Ana.

110- _How's it feel to be a whale?_

109- _Getting nowhere. _

108-_Pssh. You think that's good enough?_

107- _Sweetie, just give up all ready. _

106- _Still triple digits, huh?_

105-_You ate today, didn't you? It shows. _

That's it. The numbers stop there. They go no lower. Of course they don't; I'm a failure.

I step off the scale and lift the toilet seat; throw up every ounce of sense in my head that tells me not to; they just weigh me down.

I smile and force the light to show in my eyes so that you don't ask what's wrong.

I laugh and joke and take small bites; showing you that I'm strong.

But I'm not.

I'm dying; lost; dead to the world. Still I smile at you in the halls and gossip about the trivial things that normal girls whisper about.

I hold a regular conversation and giggle and joke. All the while burning in my own personal hell.

Not that you'd ever be able to tell.


	2. Chapter 2

_Anorexia on the Rise in the World. _

_Obesity at a Staggering High in Countries like America. _

_Tired of those stubborn rolls? Call Dr. Berk to book your liposuction appointment now! _

_Try _'s newest _ burger combo today! _

Ads all over the media like this and people wonder why I have issues with food. Eat here, we have the best (and most fattening) food. Fat? Lose weight with our awesome new weight loss surgery.

God, I hate them all. Then they wonder why I won't eat. While I obsess over the number of calories I eat and the 'useless' numbers on the scale. Because I don't want to end up like _them_, with their 2000 calorie a day diets and disregard for their weight.

They make me sick, shoving food down their throats and smiling as they do so. They make me sick, yet I long to be them. I want to be normal. I want to be able to laugh and talk with my friends while not worrying whether or not they noticed that I didn't eat or planning the quickest time I can get away from them and puke up everything.

I want to cry. I want to scream. I want do something, anything for you to recognize the distress I'm in. But I can't. Ana holds the key to my every thought and emotions and I've been a bad girl, so I can't express them. I ate today, it's my fault. I ate yesterday too. She doesn't understand that I'm trying to recover and I'm dreading telling her. It'd just make her tighten her hold on me. I'm not sure how much recovering I'm actually doing though- Mia has a pretty tight grip on me now.

You think I'm sick, don't you? That I'm a crazy, terrible person that should be grateful that she has food to eat? Maybe I am. I don't know anymore. Bet, I bet you something. If you saw me walking down the street, you wouldn't know I wrote this. Oh, no, quite the opposite. I laugh, I smile, I joke. I eat. It's what I do and say and think and feel when I'm alone that should worry you. That would quite possibly shake you to your very core. Or, maybe not. After all, you know my secrets but I don't know _yours_. You could be worse off than me and I'd never know. If you are, I'm sorry.

If not….oh well.


	3. Chapter 3

I need to not eat. I need to be able to starve myself into oblivion because I cannot bear the guilt and pain that eating causes me.

Oh, but I must eat , for I love it and it nourishes me; giving me the semblance of comfort and the feeling that everything will be all right.

Until it begins to fill me, making me expand outward, and I want to crumble. Food is a traitor. It never fails to entice me with its deceit.

I condemn traitors, throwing up every ounce of the poison that they inflict upon me until I am no longer full, it seems. But the feeling of being full lingers like a ghost for hours, taunting me, until I hear that familiar call of food again.

It is sorry, it promises not to hurt me again. It will tempt me only to take small bites. Tempt me to read or watch tv or surf the web, unaware as those bites become larger and larger, sticking to my insides, refusing to let go, piling up a mound of fat for me to agonize over the next day.

I keep every other emotion buried inside. It's easy. But when it comes to food and eating, my emotions seem to spill over. I know that one day I will burst; that I will fall apart and be unable to put myself back together. I know this and yet every day I struggle to keep my poker face, refusing to allow the tears to fall. I am proud of myself. I have succeeded in showing little weakness, even to myself.

To everyone I am a bitch and it is obvious. They all think that I am joking so they laugh and move on or ignore it. They don't see that I don't mean to be, that it is the hunger and the pain making me lash out at them. They barely realize that I am not joking, that I am not playing around or making a joke. They won't, until I do or say something awful and then- poof! There will go my friends.

Not that I am one for friends. Sure, I have them, who doesn't? But we are not close. The one that I am close with has grown to hate me, I am sure, because I am awful. I know this and yet I cannot stop being awful. It gives me some sort of thrill, to hurt others the way that I hurt myself. If only I were stronger, I would be able to completely internalize the problem and not lash out at others. But I am not strong. The numbers on the scale are proof of that.

I am not strong, I am not skinny, I am not nice. I no longer know who I am and that scares me. People will say that I have the rest of my life to figure it out but, with this ED, who knows how long the rest of my life will be? And who knows how long I'll actually care about finding myself or a way out. I'm scared. I'm angry. But I am slowly becoming indifferent. To everything.


End file.
